Delayed Justice

by Marvin Perkins

  "You’re in the ICU at Scripps, baby. Don’t try to talk. You were in a terrible accident,” Maria said through tears of joy.

  The doctor came in the room to check on Frank. He was very pleased to see Frank was awake. He took his flashlight and shined it in each one of Frank’s eyes. He checked all the tubes and monitors, then wrote something on a chart he had in his hand.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Desio?” The doctor asked already knowing the answer. “Just try to get some rest. You’re a lucky man, believe it or not.”

  “Like hell, Doc,” Frank whispered. “What happened? I can’t remember a thing.”

  “You were ran over as you crossed the street. You don’t remember?” The doctor quizzed Frank. “The police say it was no accident.”

  “I don’t remember. Am I going to be all right?” Frank asked.

  “Your prognosis is good, you should make a full recovery. As I said, you were very lucky ,” the doctor said encouragingly.

  “You say it wasn’t an accident? What the fuck, who would want to kill me?” Frank whispered, his head hurting like hell.

  Maria just sat silent for a while and finally said, “I wouldn’t worry about it Frank, the police will get to the bottom of it. You just get some rest.”

  A nurse gave Frank another shot for pain and soon he was sound asleep. Maria would stay with him through the night.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jennifer and Buster

  The Jennifer and Frank love connection was something that peaked the detectives interest. Her husband Buster was a seedy character and described as a “bad ass”. He could have tried to run Frank down in a fit of rage. A jealous husband is always a good suspect. The detectives were about to find out. They would have to be discreet and not tip the lady’s hand about the illicit love affair she was having. If the husband didn’t know, it was probably better he didn’t know, especially not from them.

  They arrived at the residence around mid-afternoon. The Kingsleys lived in a ratty looking apartment complex, down a dead end road, in the bad part of Chula Vista. The kind of neighborhood where a bunch of scruffy children play in the streets and stray dogs set up residence. Old abandoned cars sat parked, along with lots of old clunkers that would soon be in an automotive grave yard. The apartment they were looking for was nestled behind overgrown grass and bushes in great need of trimming.

  The detectives got out of their car feeling maybe they should keep their hands on their holstered weapons for protection against unknown enemies. They looked both ways and saw no immediate threats. They walked up the sidewalk, Carson almost tripping over a child’s bicycle as they made their way to Jennifer and Buster’s front door.

  Apprehensively Chuck rang the front door, not knowing what to expect, or how exactly they should proceed. Their wait was short, they heard a man’s voice yell from inside the apartment.

  It was Buster, sounding drunk and mad as hell, “Who the fuck is knocking on my God damned door?”

  “San Diego Police Detectives, sir,” Chuck replied.

  “What the hell do you want?” Buster said as he opened the door a crack.

  Carson now getting a little pissed said, “We need to ask you a few questions. Now open the door.”

  Buster reluctantly opened the door, dressed in an old dirty San Diego Chargers t-shirt and a pair of equally dirty cutoffs. The air was putrid with the smell of stale beer, intermingled with cigarette smoke and sweat. Empty beer cans and trash were strewn all over the coffee table, spilling on a carpet long overdue for vacuuming.

  “What’s this all about officers? I ain’t did shit but sit on this couch all day and drink beer. Last time I checked that wasn’t against any laws. So what the hell do you want?” Buster asked, reeking beer breath that would kill a moose.

  “Actually we’re here to talk to your wife, Jennifer,” Chuck explained.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you say so?” Buster slurred and yelled for Jennifer, “Jen,

  Jennifer, you have company.” He took his place back on the couch.

  Jennifer heard the disturbance and came out of the bedroom, fresh out of the shower. The detectives were extremely surprised at her beauty, considering the slobbering piece of crap husband that slouched on the couch.

  Still in disbelief Carson said, “Jennifer?”

  “Yes, I’m Jennifer, how can I help you?” Jennifer asked, looking from one detective to the other.

  Chuck explained, “ I’m Detective Brown and this is Detective Carson. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Frank Desio.”

  "Frank?” Jennifer, tried to be coy but didn’t succeed.

  “Yes, Frank Desio. An attempt was made on his life and we’re conducting our preliminary investigation,” Chuck continued. “We’re speaking to everyone in the office and since you weren’t at work today, well, here we are.”

  Jennifer was shocked and trembling, it was obvious she had not heard the news about Frank. “Oh my God, what happened?”

  Carson picked up the story at this point. “He was ran over by someone driving an older model car traveling at a high rate of speed. He is in the hospital, lucky to be alive. We’re asking everyone if they know of anyone who drives an old blue or green car and might wish Mr. Desio harm.”

  Jennifer was still trembling and trying to maintain. She knew Buster was listening and even in his seemingly drunken state, he heard and understood everything. “Oh God no, everybody loved Frank,” Jennifer said almost in tears.

  “How about you Mr. Kingsley, what kind of car do you drive?” Carson had to push the envelope, not getting anywhere with Jennifer.

  “I don’t have a fucking car or a fucking driving license. I don’t know this Frank Desio or give a shit if anybody ran over his ass. All I know is I didn’t.” Buster testified in his defense. “Now is there anything else you assholes would like to know before you get the fuck out of my house?”

  “Sir, I don’t think we like your tone. We are conducting an attempted murder investigation and if you fail to cooperate, we might just have to haul you downtown, if you get my drift, “ Chuck snapped.

  “Well fucking take me downtown, partner, you little prick, see if I give a fuck,” Buster still continued to babble.

  “All right enough of this,” Carson exploded. “ We will take you downtown, and we’ll take the long way, if you know what I mean, partner.”

  Jennifer strangely came to Buster’s defense, “He didn’t have anything to do with it. He’s too drunk and lazy to get up from the couch, let alone try and run over anyone. He was here all day yesterday and all day today, I’ll testify to that.”

  “Okay, we’re going to leave it at that. Here’s one of my cards, Mrs. Kingsley, in case you think of anything or if you just want to talk,” Chuck concluded and they were just about to leave.

  Buster still not willing to let it alone, further spouted his drunken rhetoric, “What would she want to talk to you about you little preppy fuck? What, you trying to get with my wife right in front of me? You don’t know who you’re dealing with here. I’ll…

  “Enough Buster, enough,” Jennifer pleaded. “I’ll let you gentleman know if I think of anything that can be of help. Good day.”

  Carson and Chuck, let themselves out with a look on their faces that said “what the heck just happened here.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Driver

  The driver sat for what seemed like days with his head in his hands. How had he been so easily manipulated. He started to loathe himself for his weakness, for his sickness.

  He was no murderer, he knew that. And yet he tried to take another man’s life. The drugs had such a hold on him, they had turned him into someone he didn’t recognize any more. He had did a lot of crazy things in his life, committed petty crimes, been arrested dozens of times and even did a few months in the county jail, but this, this thing was not him.

  The phone once again rang, bringing him back to reality. He just sat and stared at the phon
e, refused to pick up the receiver, refused to play this deadly game anymore. It was time to take a stand and there was but one way out. One way his clouded, confused mind could conceive. He’d show the man on the phone. It had to end right here in this motel room, right at this moment in time. It was not too late.

  He pulled a 9mm Berretta out of his waist band. It felt cold in his trembling hand. The pistol seemed like an old friend, a comfort in his time of need. It was just a piece of metal, but it was his one and only salvation. He rubbed it’s coolness on his face.

  Taking his bottle of medication off the nightstand, he opened the lid and peered inside. The bottle was almost full, more than enough to give him the courage to do what had to be done. He poured out a handful and crammed them in his mouth, washing the contents down with a large gulp of whiskey. He sat back in the chair and waited for the pills to take effect.

  The pills proved to be stronger than he had realized, he convulsed, and collapsed on the floor dead. The pistol he had caressed for comfort, dropped to the floor with a thud, and there was silence and peace.

  The phone rang again, no answer.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Plot Thickens

  The detectives both sat scratching their heads in their dingy, poorly lit office. Again they were back to that sum total of nothing point. No suspects, lots of motive and opportunity, but still no solid leads. They were obviously overlooking something, but what? They had interviewed everyone they could think of, checked and cross checked phone records, nothing.

  In their moment of utter despair the phone rang. Carson answered, “Detective Carson, may I help you?”

  It was a detective from another precinct with some starling news. A suicide victim had been found in a crummy motel room in a crappy part of town. The victim’s name according to his driver’s license was Roy Harris Jr.

  “So why the hell are you calling me about some stiff who killed himself?” Carson fumed.

  The detective on the other end of the phone explained. A car registered to a Emma Harris, same National City address was parked out front. The car was an old green Cadillac with front end damage and blood all over the bumper.

  “Well why didn‘t you say so?” Carson almost yelled from the news. He hung up the phone, “Chuck, we got us a lead. In fact we got the perpetrator of the crime. And one other thing, he’s dead. Signed, sealed and delivered, oh yeah!”

  “What are you talking about?” Chuck replied, quite curious.

  “They found a suicide victim in National City, who was driving an old green Caddy with front end damage and blood on the bumper. Looks like our boy,” Carson said, still excited.

  The detectives headed over to the crappy motel in National City. What they would found at the hotel would both baffle and confuse them more than help them.

  As they pulled up to the motel they saw the old Caddy sitting out front, old and green, with front end damage, just as described.

  The detectives entered the motel room not knowing what to expect. A 9mm Berretta lay beside the victim, however there was no visible evidence of a gunshot wound. These types of wounds tend to be easily recognizable by a big pool of blood and brain matter in the vicinity of the dead body, and a gaping hole in the head. This individual looked like someone who just laid down for an afternoon nap.

  The coroner’s office, forensic people and National City Detectives, were on the scene. One of the detectives informed Chuck and Carson, “The pistol hasn’t even been fired. There’s a magazine with 15 rounds and one in the chamber unused. It would seem the victim had planned to shoot himself, took a bottle full of pills to soothe his nerves, but never got the chance to blow his brains out. I’m sure housekeeping at the motel appreciated that favor.” He sort of laughed sarcastically, but Chuck and Carson didn’t see the humor.

  Noticing a big wad of bills sitting on the night stand, Chuck nudged Carson, “Check this out Carson, that’s a lot of cash.” He did a quick count, whistled and shook his head. “Five thousand bucks, damn. Now where would a guy staying at a crappy motel get five thousand dollars?”

  “How the hell would I know? Maybe he won the lottery today or something who knows.” Pointing at the stiff Carson said almost laughingly, “and our friend here ain’t talking.

  An empty medication bottle sat on the nightstand next to the cash. The prescription was for Clozapine, the doctor’s name on the bottle was Bill Riley. “Dr. Riley, there’s that name again,” Chuck said showing his partner the bottle.

  “Could be coincidence, but you know how I feel about them. We better check him out, and see what he knows about this mess,” Carson said dropping ashes from his cigar on the floor.

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “I’m so glad you agree ole wise one. But first I think we should check out the vehicle, see who it belongs to, and if the owner knows anything.”

  The car was registered to a Emma Harris who was probably the victim’s mother or wife. So the detectives headed over to National City to talk to this Emma Harris. After that they would see if they could catch up with Dr. Bill Riley. Strange his name would pop up again. Maybe he could explain what type of issues his patient was dealing with that resulted in him offing himself and what him and Maria Desio had been talking about these past few months.

  Mrs. Harris lived in beautiful National City, California, just a stone’s throw from the U.S. Naval Station at 32nd Street and only a couple of miles from the crappy motel where Roy Harris Jr. was found dead. The detectives always hated to be the unlucky individuals to tell the victim’s love ones of their untimely demise. All the crying and the fake caring, and the usual “sorry for your loss” line, which always sounded so disingenious. But it was a part of the gig so the detectives readied themselves for the ordeal.

  The neighborhood was middle middle class, but the yard was well kept and the house was in good repair. The detectives pulled their unmarked unit up in front. They paused in the car hoping maybe something would happen, anything to keep them from having to go knock on the door and break the devastating news to Mrs. Harris. They had made a couple of calls and found out the victim was in fact her son, her only son as matter of fact. Maybe lightning would strike their unmarked unit, or a tsunami would rise up and wash them away. A giant bug might come and eat them whole or the world might come to an end, it could happen.

  However, after a few minutes nothing in fact did arise, so Carson and Chuck got out of the car and dutifully headed towards the house. They somehow did feel sadness, not being totally callus men like some in their profession. Chuck knocked on the door, or rather tapped on the door. No reply. He tapped again with the same result.

  Carson yelled, “Son, knock on that door like you got a pair, let me show you.” The wood door was open letting air into the house through the screen. Carson pounded heavily on the door. There still was no reply. He was just fixing to knock again when out of nowhere a huge German Shepherd , with a head as big as a basketball, jumped against the screen door growling fiercely. Carson jumped back in terror, Chuck took too many steps backwards and fell off the porch on the grass. The huge animal was still barking and banging up against the screen, adding to the chaotic scene

  Chuck was picking himself off of the ground and Carson was regaining his composure when Mrs. Emma Harris finally made it to the door. She yelled at the dog, “Rocco, Rocco stop all that barking, behave yourself. Get in your room.” The dog dutifully obeyed and disappeared from the door. Then meekly she asked, “Well, who are you gentleman? May I help you?”

  The detectives introduced themselves, showed their shields, and politely asked if they could come in. They asked was the dog safely secured in the bedroom and Mrs Harris assured them “Rocco” was safely detained.

  Mrs. Harris, asked the detectives to have a seat on the couch and she pulled up a chair from the other side of the room. It scraped on the hardwood floor as she drug it into place. She sat down looking from Carson to Chuck and back. “This is about m
y car, right?” She inquired. “I know it was my son who took it, but I had to report it stolen, insurance and all. So, where did my no good son leave it this time? That boy, I swear, I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. Hope he ain’t killed anybody ”

  "Well ma’am, this is about your car, in a way,” Chuck started. “I’m sorry there’s no better way to tell you than just come right out with it. Your son, Roy Jr. is dead. They found him in a motel not far from here, dead of an overdose of his medication.”

  Mrs. Harris started to cry , she was not making this any easier for Chuck. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and began to wipe the tears from her face, that flowed form her eyes like a river. She couldn’t help but ask, “ But what does this have to do with my car? You said this was about my car, then in the same breath you say my son is dead.”

  Carson stepped in to elaborate, “Yes ma’am, you see, your car was used in the attempted murder of a Frank Desio. Your son was in possession of said vehicle, which was parked in the motel lot when he was found. We believe he was the one who tried to kill Mr. Desio. He subsequently took his own life, probably remorseful for his actions.”

  “You say Frank Desio?” Mrs Harris asked, still wiping tears. “Frank Desio is a good friend of the family, he and my husband served together in Vietnam.”

  Chuck continued, “Do you know of any reason why your son would want to kill Mr. Desio?”

  “Heavens no, everybody loved Frank. Junior didn’t know him well, just to see him. He knew who he was and all. Frank used to come over to the house all the time when Roy Sr. was still alive. But Junior had no reason to try to kill him,” Mrs Harris added.

  “We found a prescription bottle on the nightstand. Was your son being treated for depression or bi-polar disease?” Chuck asked.

  “Yes, I’m afraid he was crazy as hell. Those pills Dr. Riley gave him seemed to make him worst. He had gotten out of control of late, since his daddy died. He seemed to lose all desire to live. He was so lost, I didn’t know what to do with him. Dr. Riley said he was making progress, I don’t know,” Mrs Harris continued.